The crêpe place in Ella’s town has a beachy, country-store vibe, complete with a porch that has beach chairs on it for people who are too sandy to sit inside. I walk up the steps to the screen door in the fading light and pull it open. Ella waits near the front window, rapidly typing into her phone.
I clear my throat.
She looks up, and when she sees me, she smiles. For some reason it catches me off guard. She’s never smiled at my arrival before, and it’s nice, enough so that I break eye contact and put my hands in my pockets. And as I do I hear Tiny’s voice taunting me about having a crush, which I do not. I do like her, but as a person, not a romantic interest; we just understand each other in a way I didn’t expect.
Ella slips her phone into her shoulder bag and chuckles. “Don’t look so nervous; it’s not like this is a date or anything.”
And great. My cheeks are reddening, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. “Obviously,” I say, trying to cover my absurd blush. “I never thought otherwise.”
She exhales. “Exactly. Good. I told Leah you’d never think I was asking you out-out.” Suddenly her intent phone typing makes sense.
I scratch a nonexistent itch on my eyebrow. “Sooo, you like crêpes, huh?”
She laughs. “Don’t you dare act like I just made this awkward.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not even a little. We’re friends. Friends eat crêpes together. End of story.”
I smile inadvertently at the admission that we’re friends.
But Ella must take my smile as something else because she says, “And don’t grin at me like that, either. Just look at the menu. Nutella and strawberries. Bananas and honey. Smile at those.”
I obediently direct my attention to the handwritten chalkboard menu on the wall and follow her to the counter. Despite my awkwardness, it occurs to me there is an opening here to discuss her relationship. “Speaking of Justin,” I start.
She gives me the side-eye. “Not even remotely smooth.”
“Ouch. I’d call Justin at least quasi-smooth.”
She half laughs. “Not Justin. You.”
“I mean, he’s pretty popular,” I continue.
She looks at me suspiciously. “So?”
“So are you.”
She turns to face me, no longer making a show of reading the chalkboard. “And?”
I shrug. “And nothing,” I say casually, knowing there’s no chance she’ll let my comment slide. “It just makes sense.”
She studies my face, or what she can see of it in profile. “Because I’m shallow?”
“Not at all.” I meet her eyes. “The exact opposite, really.”
She lifts an eyebrow, unsure if she should be offended.
“But popular people always date each other. It’s just an accepted fact,” I say.
“I’m not dating him because he’s popular,” she insists like she needs me to know that. But I can also see her trying to nail down her motives, which is the whole point—self-evaluation. Tiny often says we don’t really do anything in these cases but hold up a mirror, and that it’s what people see in the reflection that has them choose differently.
“I didn’t say you were,” I agree.
“You implied it.”
“All I’m saying is that people have a different level of attractiveness when they’re popular, and I’m not talking about the physical. Popular people don’t get scrutinized the same way, their bullying gets celebrated as humor, and so on.”
“I’d say the opposite,” she replies, pushing back. “I’d say their lives are under a microscope and they get scrutinized more.”
I shake my head. “In the spotlight more, observed more, yes. But their flaws get overlooked. I’m not saying it’s always bad. It just skews perspective.”
A girl with purple hair behind the counter asks us if we’re ready to order. Ella immediately shifts her attention, and I let the conversation go. I’m not trying to convince her of something, just plant a seed that Justin might not be as shiny and perfect as he seems.
We tell the girl behind the counter what we want, and she hands us a number.
Ella chooses a small table by the window overlooking the porch. “This place has been here forever,” she says, changing the subject. “I used to come here with my mom before I could even walk.”
I sit across from Ella at a rustic wooden table.
“Hasn’t changed a bit,” she says.
“Nostalgia is a funny thing.”
She tilts her head as she pulls her chair in. “How do you mean?”
“I read once that nostalgia makes people feel like life has more meaning, something about increased connection and value,” I explain. But what I don’t say is that Tiny and I often use nostalgia as a tool in our cases. In fact, I’d have chosen to meet her here if I’d known it existed.
“That makes sense,” she says. “Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”
“Are you close with your mom?” I ask.
She sighs, twisting a gold ring on her pointer finger. “I used to be. Well, I don’t know. I guess I still am? I just . . . recently things have been different.”
“Different how?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Wouldn’t have asked the question otherwise.”
She shakes her head like she’s not sure what to make of me. “You know, you’re definitely not what I expected, Holden. You’re smart. And actually kind of nice.”
I laugh. “You’re surprised I’m nice?”
She laughs, too. “I take it back—you’re not nice. But you are genuine, which is rare.”
For a second, I feel guilty. If she knew that I was asking about her mom because Tiny and I discussed it this afternoon, she wouldn’t praise me. But just as quickly, I push the doubt away. If someone had done this for Des, she’d still be here.
She rolls her eyes when I don’t immediately answer. “You basically suck at small talk, though.”
I (the real August) smile at this. “That might be the truest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve watched you with Amber. I’m not gonna lie: it’s painful.”
I rest my elbows on the table. “Well, if we’re going this whole truth route . . . When you told me Amber wanted me to come to her party, I was hesitant. But when I got there and she kept touching my arm, I thought she might devour me like a praying mantis.”
She laughs a full-bodied laugh, and it lights up her face in a way I haven’t seen before. “Amber’s the queen of the arm touch, and it gets exponentially worse when she’s flirting and/or drinking. Drives Leah nuts.”
“I’m with Leah.”
The purple-haired girl shows up at our table, giving us our crêpes and lemonades and taking the number in exchange.
“Amber thinks you like her, you know,” Ella says, amused. “Thinks you’re just too shy to admit it.”
“Damn. I mean, I’m flattered. But Amber’s not my type by a long shot.”
“You’re not into blond femme fatales? Are you sure you have a pulse?”
“Stupid, right?”
“Very,” she agrees. “But now I’m curious. If you don’t like Amber, what kind of girl do you like?”
“Uh,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I guess I like people who surprise me.”
“You’re gonna have to elaborate on that one.”
“Well,” I say, pausing for a beat, trying to actually answer. No one’s asked me this question since I was a preteen, when Tiny said she liked blonds, and that even though she’d give anyone a chance because personality was far more important, she just couldn’t help but love all that shiny hair; all I said in response was that I liked smart girls. “I’ve known lots of Ambers. I can pretty much tell you what she’s going to do and when. But I prefer not knowing. I like when someone throws me for a loop.”
Ella doesn’t immediately respond with a question or banter. Instead, she raises her eyebrows. “You better not be referring to when I said you weren’t what I expected. I was not flirting with you,” she says, giving me a stern look and pointing her fork at me.
My eyes widen and I scramble to fix it. “Not what I was getting at. I didn’t say you liked surprising guys; I said I like surprising girls.”
Now she looks embarrassed, and I feel like this whole meeting is somehow cursed to be awkward, and that it might be Tiny’s fault because of her taunting.
“Well, right, good,” she replies, spearing her crêpe. “Because I don’t. I like guys predictable and boring.”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
“Now, what were we talking about before this?” she continues. “Oh, right, you asked about my mom,” Ella says, changing not only the subject but also the tone.
I nod, readjusting. “You don’t have to—”
“Obviously,” she says. “But I want to.” She takes a small bite and swallows. “It’s just, well, my mom and I don’t talk that much anymore. I mean, we talk, but not about real things. Every time we get on a heavy topic, we argue. So we both just started avoiding them.” She shakes her head. “It’s funny because I give people advice all day long on my astrology blog about deeply personal issues, and yet I . . .” She pauses like she’s searching for the right words.
“Don’t think about your own problems?” I offer.
“Never,” she agrees. “Although I’m not sure you can relate. You always bring the conversation to something personal and real.”
“Me?” I say, a little surprised. “Not even close.”
She gives me a demanding stare.
“No, seriously.” Once again I’ve slipped into August’s truth. “I’m way better at talking about other people’s problems than my own.”
She leans her elbows on the table. “Okay, Holden, shoot. Tell me something you avoid dealing with.”
I don’t answer right away, but Ella doesn’t waver. And I realize why I’ve never let my personality seep into cases before, because throwing out fake problems is easy and non–anxiety inducing.
“How about this: I’ll go first.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin.
Shit. We’re actually doing this.
“So remember how I told you I think of my grandmother as my best friend? Well, I haven’t been able to get that out of my head. I keep wondering what it means about my relationship with Amber and Leah that I’d choose Nonna over them even though she’s gone.” She fidgets with her fork. “The three of us have been friends since elementary school. But we had a falling-out shortly before my grandmother passed. And truthfully, I don’t think we’ve ever gotten back to where we were. Something is just different, and I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
I’m once again taken aback. Why didn’t her parents tell us about her grandmother or this social situation? Losing first your friend group and then your closest relative is devastating and something I imagine changed her entire psychology, how she sees the world and herself in it. “Honestly, I don’t know how you did it. I’m not sure I’d recover from a falling-out with Mia alongside losing Des.” I mean this. I’d have been utterly lost.
She presses her lips together and nods, dipping her head with the motion and once again revealing the star constellation of freckles on her cheekbone. “Your turn,” she says instead of elaborating about how hard it was. And once again I realize how similar we are.
She waits.
But I don’t immediately speak. Because I feel I owe her a real answer. Ella will never know this since I’ll only be in her life for another couple of weeks, but she’s doing for me what I usually do for others, providing a space to dig through all the layers and access what’s underneath. I take a breath. “You know how I offered to teach you to paint?” My voice is quiet.
“I do.”
I study my hands, my heart beating too fast. “I haven’t painted since my sister passed.”
She stops her cup halfway to her mouth. “Not at all?”
“Not at—” I say, halting as I consider my imaginary drawings.
“What?”
“No. Nothing.” I shift in my chair, not willing to admit those even to myself.
She watches me for a long moment, then nods to herself like she sees more than I’m saying. And maybe she does because she says, “I hated astrology for a whole year after my grandmother died. Couldn’t even look at it without bawling.”
I look up at her. “I get that.”
“I know you do. I think you get a lot of things about me,” she says, and we hold eye contact for a long second, so long that I feel my heartbeat in my temples.
She takes a sip of lemonade.
I’m still recalibrating when she asks, “So then that painting offer wasn’t real?”
“Honestly . . .” I pause to consider it. “I meant it when I said it, but that was before you knew what it meant to me. I feel . . . I don’t know. A little . . .”
“Vulnerable?” she offers.
“I was gonna say embarrassed, but yeah,” I admit with an audible exhale.
She eyes me, like she’s trying to decide something. “Well, you know what? I had no intention of taking you up on that offer. But I just changed my mind.”
I hesitate, caught squarely between a definitive no as August and an obligatory yes as Holden. Shit.
“Tomorrow. My house.” She takes a bite of her crêpe like everything is settled.
And for the first time since we started Summer Love, I’m nervous. I was supposed to be providing Ella with a friendly ear, someone to hash things out with and challenge her norm to see what shakes out. How is it that she’s challenging my norm? I don’t know how to feel about it, and I certainly don’t want to go through with it. But what choice do I have? Tell Tiny I’m sorry, but I’m giving up the much-needed tuition money this job is providing and sabotaging this case? And even if I were okay with ruining our dream-school plans, which I’m not, I’d never abandon Ella knowing what I know. Even if this case goes wrong, even if she winds up hating me, I want her to see Justin for who he really is and make a choice for herself. We all need someone to lean on once in a while, someone who’ll be honest and tell us when we’ve behaved poorly or overreacted or in Ella’s case when she’s making decisions for her future based on other people’s needs and not her own. I get paid to do this job, but I don’t do it for the money. I do it because Des would have, and because I wish someone did it for her.